


Just Another Face [To Be Insecure About]

by realitycheckplease



Category: Me myself and I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realitycheckplease/pseuds/realitycheckplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She speaks and there’s a slight bitterness in her tone- and no, it’s not jealousy. It’s frustration. Frustration with the ideal that people have to be pretty to be perfect. What is “pretty,” anyway? Is it a thin body with a fat ass and big boobs? Is it your natural face with make-up? Is it voluminous pin-straight hair? Is it untangled curly hair?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Face [To Be Insecure About]

**Author's Note:**

> There was a tumblr post (if I ever find that person I will credit them) that went somewhat along the lines of, “If you’re ever feeling down about yourself, imagine yourself as a fictional character. Fictional characters are all great with every quality they have- they’re perfect because they’re not.” And today was one of the worst blows I’ve had to my self-esteem. The worst part is that no one said anything to me- the bully and the victim were both me. So here, this is me as a character in a book in the most vulnerable state I could be in. You are the protagonist of your own life, anyway, right?

It’s your average, everyday high school life. People are rushing through the halls, pretending they’ve got somewhere important to be. There are couples dreading the wait between this and the next passing period to make-out. Some people are standing in front of their lockers doing their hair and make-up. When they glance up, they glare, looking down upon the people whose clothes that aren’t from Urban Outfitters or Forever 21. There’s another girl shying at the back- a typical Indian girl from Browntown. Her clothes are cute, in style. Her tan shorts show off her legs and her denim shirt fits tight against her slim body. Her books are tightly clutched in her hands, like she could somehow grasp and absorb the information. She is good-looking, with long black hair that compliment her chocolate-brown eyes that glow amber in the sun, a nose too big for her head, a mole on her shoulder, and light eye-bags from the stress of school. She is pretty nonetheless. She talks to her friends, makes some pretty crappy puns. She laughs loud and hard at what they have to say. She doesn’t try to hide her laugh, but her hand instinctively covers her face. When she laughs, blood rushes to her cheeks- she’s in peace, in her most natural state. It looks like she’s forgetting everything she worries about. She goes to class- dance. She performs full-out, adding extra bounces to chausse, smiling wide with impeccable technique. She’s a great dancer. She’s definitely not the best- far from it, but she’s good and she looks like she loves it, like she has fun. She goes to her next class and gets her tests back. She gets a perfect score, or at least an almost perfect score with one silly error that makes her roll her eyes at herself. She’s content, but knows she could do better. She goes to lunch with her friends, going about life like anyone else would. Then she sees people fixing their hair, changing their clothes between periods, re-applying their make-up and the topic she and her friends were on takes a somber turn.   
  
She speaks and there’s a slight bitterness in her tone- and no, it’s not jealousy. It’s frustration. Frustration with the ideal that people have to be pretty to be perfect.   
What is “pretty,” anyway? Is it a thin body with a fat ass and big boobs? Is it your natural face with make-up? Is it voluminous pin-straight hair? Is it untangled curly hair? It’s evident that she’s thinking about dark things in the way her chin tilts downwards. Her brown eyes look black somehow. The confident smile on her face starts to dissipate, but she tries to not let anyone see through her. She puts on a fake smile, makes a joke that makes her sound cocky and confident and looks down for the rest of lunch. No one notices a difference.   
When she goes home, she looks at herself in a mirror and winces. That crookedness in her nose? She thinks of it as a mutation. The width of her thighs weighs her down, the length of her nose upsets her, her jiggly arms cover her face and she lies on her almost-but-not-really flat stomach and cries. She gets up 10 minutes later, washes her face and writes in her journal. She writes about how she feels unloved, how she’ll never get a boyfriend, how everyone with a boyfriend is physically attractive even if they’re honest-to-God bitches. She says that she always studies hard because she’s known that being attractive just wasn’t an option for her. She believes that if she couldn’t have the looks, she could at least have the books, right? She writes about how important physical appeal is in high school. Yeah, sure, everyone has insecurities, but not everyone’s insecurity is right in the smack dab middle of [his/her] face. She thinks about how others may feel- do they think of her as ugly? Most likely. Do they see her the way she sees herself? Well obviously, she sees herself as how she is, so others have to, too. She thinks about other people’s insecurities- one of her friends has a small forehead, another has big lips, another has large feet, but then she thinks about how beautiful they are and how loved they all are or deserve to. She agrees on the fact that there is hope out there. She just doesn’t believe it’s for her. She thinks about getting a nose job, but then thinks of the backlash she would get if she did. She realizes that the same people that call her ugly [even if it’s not to her face] will call her shallow for trying to change her look. They’ll either call her dumb or a nerd. She’s either attention-seeking or narcissistic. She can’t win.   
She doesn’t deny her imperfections, but she starts to learn how to embrace it. She has imperfections, but that’s what’s special. All these marks? The scars from falling just prove she’s gotten up. The crookedness of her nose, the moles on her hand, tattoo on her arm, the bags under her eyes...It’s all proof- proof that she existed, proof that she lived. It’s proof that she survived your average, everyday high school life.

****  
  



End file.
